Tag: storytelling

Deep With You – Part Three: Bondage

‘A flesh and blood vessel propped up and bent to the point of strain. Clothed only in chains, your spirit held down with the wet and warm weaknesses exposed. What is it to be slave? The highest form of love? Or the empty nothingness of un-reciprocated giving? The truth is, a master resides above both.’

Nine days on.

In the blemish-less, hermetically sealed laboratory of the Trafalgar 7, Dr. Samoy was tirelessly working on her dual objectives. Almost in a trance like state of focus, she manipulates the lifeless organism in her gloved hands. The gloves, a product of Black Tech Industries’ (BTI) work on combining human flesh with synthetic polymers. They allowed her to feel its steaming innards with the clarity of a cannibal’s first plunge into another. There in lay the key question…why was this organism’s cells still producing heat energy post-mortem? As her masterfully agile mind navigated that question, her mobile holocom device beeped twice. It was silver, slender and translucent in design – reminiscent of twenty first century phones. It began to glow red, this was the colour she’d assigned to the person messaging. The notification read: ‘All preparations are set, the Devil has agreed to the trade.’ With attention now split, she left her metallic workstation of ornaments and medical utensils, to discuss with her father an entirely different form of dissection.

Only hours away, across the dark diamond dotted emptiness between ship and destination, the Empress was waiting. Reigning upon The rock amoung rocks, a moon of a planet deceased long ago from molten cancer. A small section of a larger inhospitable solar system, home to three war ravaged planets. Space here somehow seemed heavier, like the souls of the dead added substance to it. The fragmented corpses of human and sentient beings, floated within this eternal black milk, cold and forgotten for another day. However, all days in this system of the damned, belonged to her – Empress of Slaver’s Moon, Maureen Of The Devils Melancholia.

Deep within her moon, a castle built of excavated pearl coloured marbel surroundings – this moon cavernous only in density. Inside that, an offensively decadent room she called ‘The Womb’, was where she sat. An ash grey throne against one of it’s four red and gold walls, facing inwards. Two slender humanoid beings; lavishly dressed in embroided robes that left only their LED red eyes visible, guarding left and right sides, as she considered all she owned. Which, in this chamber was twelve – mostly human males, with several others fitting neither category. All who chose to place clothes upon their person were sweating profusely; those without still gleamed with the latent moisture of effort. This was why the Empress referred to it as The Womb. It was designed to be hot and moist at all times, a place to gestate her sexual perversions.

The way she was created: outwardly a vision of a gentle women, full, satisfied and aged from years of mothering, was a cruel fable. Inside she was barren, the organs present, but just desert scape from birth – the entrance synthetically sealed. The rumours floating the halls of this vast sanctuary were that she was a fallen android from the AI revolution on Earth One. The final model of those built for repopulation protocol 6. Now powerful, twisted and bent towards owning what she could never experience – Life and Sex. In front of ‘her’ were individuals of different age, sex and species; suffering various forms post traumatic stress disorder, and all engaging in various duties at the Empresses’ behest. Some, preparing her next meal of the finest imported organisms; other’s cleaning the floors beneath the subtlety swaying sexual contraptions above – occasionally, they dripped something warm. The remainder, haunted by their own memories, would cower in corners hoping for reprieve.

As she watched them perspire and trickle from mid back to the curvature of their bruised cheeks, she reminisced back to moments immaculately stored on her cerebral hard drive. One, of a caucasian human male in his twenties; strong, supple, and bound naked to an ergonomic table. Limbs, spread star-shaped and restrained by old red ropes that had eaten away the flesh on his wrists and ankles. She remembered the look of blood vessel sprawling, red-eyed exasperation on his face, as she commanded the male Hylian from a distant galaxy – ashen with the strength of two men – to masturbate him without mercy, continuing forcefully through multiple cycles of erection, discharge, and recuperation. He had endured this for three cycles already. The lubrication required was running low, the time needed to stroke him out of flaccidity – extending painfully. His defiant moans were becoming screams of derision. The Hylian, lacking in empathy, continued the cruelty, even as the man’s pride lay pathetically limp in his unforgiving and coarse grip. She had her favourite moments within this ballet of hollowing extraction; the image of the man’s sweat drench abdominals convulsing viciously after each ejaculation, or the tears that inevitably flowed from the eyes of the hopelessly tortured, as reproductive organs moved aimlessly inside their wrinkled sack in search of the impossible. However, beyond the sights was the most important thing, the smell. The sad scent of his humiliation; the combined perfume of his body odor and ejaculate trickling slowly off the stained hands of his alien abuser. All of which, accentuated with the note of ripe vaginal fluid, still moist in his pubic hairs from a previous un-consented ordeal. The Devils Melancholia lived for this, her senses augmented beyond human limits, created an almost ethereal experience from the visceral scent.

Another treasured memory she replayed at least a few times a day, was the most stomach turning…but probably the most relevant to her twisted and bitter psyche – the sodomy of the Haitian twins. Being the last people of Earth One to become vegan, they’re scent is said to be noticeably different in the nose of an android, tales go as far as to say they carry the flavor of swine in their darkest openings. Empress Maureen owned the last two in the know galaxies, she worked them hard and often.

In a room where darkness was only slightly cleared by blurs of artificial starlight above. Two of her most athletic female guardians; pregnant, and strapped with well-endowed synthetics, approached ominously. High end and ready, the synthetics were oozing a softly illuminating substance from their micro pores. They self-lubricated like carnivorous sexual deviants, and the wielders pointed them towards their meal. The Empress would grin from the edge of the room; robbed, and hooded as her Haitian slaves trembled nauseously. Only restrained from the waist down and bent over a make shift shelf of unknown material, their arms were free to animate fatigued flails for mercy. Even in such a low-lit space, she could perceive it all, the croaked groans of dried throats as each was forcibly spread open and plunged into. Her pregnant warriors, aided by the length of the synthetics could easily stroke pain and guilty pleasure into them. The glowing substance splashed and dripped down their legs. The twins – side by side – scratched at their own thighs in neurotic anticipation of the depth to come. Their pigmentation made the un-violated parts of them almost invisible, but all things in this heat and stench-saturated room, were perceivable to the Devils Melancholia. The devil’s favourite thing? That each synthetic was different in girth. Meaning, every time the bulbous guardians facetiously swapped victim, the twin’s bodies – unable to acclimatize to either, would be reintroduced to that first eye-watering plunge again…and again.

This was, and is the Slavers Moon Anissa and Captain Dryake approached…

-“Thank you Chief.” Dryake responded, while standing pensively in front of the bridge’s Digitised three by three meter window. It was their only view into the outside, and it displayed in HE (Human Eye) definition, the chaos that was this moon’s surface and orbital surroundings. The space around the cracked and rugged terrain of Slavers Moon, looked like a collision of planets and asteroids paused half a second after impact. Drayke was so focused on it, he pulled back his consciousness from the men and women in his charge, staring, and waiting for his orders. Not in all his years serving had he been so conflicted about a mission. Just before his silence alerted the first waking of anxiety in his crew, Anissa slips her hand into his fist and whispers, “My Captain, take hold of your choice like you do me, if it shifts away, bend it towards your heart and it will succumb to you.” Her words, flowed through him like a soft massage, and he felt the freedom that came from release. Drayke, was now able to trust his instincts, and the plan they came up with together amidst their warm slumbers entwined – legs held between blood warm thighs; heads, resting and hearing the slow beat of a heart loved.

-“Land her 1 click from the entrance to the north subterranean levels Chief, the co-ordinates should be on your pod screen now.”

-“Yes Captain.”

The entire ship’s crews began their own particular preparations for landing: The engineers saw to the ships thrusters and lading mechanisms, the medical department made sure all first response healing gels, where fully stocked into the med kit being taken off the ship; and severe trauma operating rooms were prepared for the worst. The mercenaries rehearsed various tactical battle protocols, while cleaning all the grade one weaponry, Anissa’s deep pockets could bestow. Finally, the kitchen crew – consisting predominantly of AI – had a task perfectly suited to an unfeeling computer program, to reassess and adjust on board ration limits in real-time, if and when the total crew number raised of fell.

However, the most meticulous final preparations involved only two individuals, one lost in lust and emotional transference – of the Freudian kind. The other, simply a lost child, looking for validation.

-“Fuck, I didn’t even know I could do that” Blaise said, under the duress of sexual fatigue. She lay exposed on her bed; skin still emitting the chemically induced heat of climax. She was looking up at Dr. Samoy, her face red with emotions she had no time to indulge.

-“ The female reproductive organ is much more versatile than most realise. When you’ve studied it, and the anatomy of all the known species as much as I have, making you eject that volume fluid is child’s play.” She says, while wiping her slim fingers with a near by hand towel.

-“Still, I’m surprised…it’s never happened before, what is it? It feels like I fucking pissed myself. Blaise says embarrassingly, as she reconciles with the large damp patch under her bum and thighs.

-“Technically you did; It’s urine, diluted with a prostatic-specific antigen typically produced in men by the prostate gland. In women it’s produced by the Skene glands. However, in actuality a ‘true female ejaculation,’ is far less exciting. Dr. Samoy’s tone floated between caring and not so – Blaise could never pic up these subtleties.

-“I love it when you talk science Doctor.”

-“Look, we’re landing soon, clean yourself up and change the sheets. Time to focus.”

-“I know, I know… but are you sure it’s going to work?” Blaise said, as she began getting up and tending to the mess.

-“ Of course, how long have I been planning this? We have more than half the ship’s crew behind us too. One way or another I’ll get it done.” Dr. Samoy’s eyes glazing over with a conviction, Blaise still hadn’t recognized as self-serving ambition.

-“And after that, together, we can leave this floating coffin, and run our own facility with Black Tech Industries back on Earth Two. So much was her belief in the web of love and insubordination they had spun, she spoke the words completely on auto pilot. However, behind Blaise’s scuttling and tidying, Dr. Samoy had already left.

Back at the underground castle, the Devil’s Melancholia, not immune to the compulsion for preparation, organised for the crew of the Trafalgar 7s arrival. The subsequent rendezvous, had been organized by the political representatives of both sides half a year in advance. The outcome of which could change the face of the known galaxies, and she prepared accordingly.

A blue-pigmented female of unknown planetary origins, stood up from a muddy grey coloured table of six. Standing over seven-foot tall, with her hair immaculately styled into braids, she was clad in a precious metal and stone armor of practical design. The five other individuals –four female, one male – sat around this table staring at her, each of their armors and physical characteristics were anchored to their galactic origins. She turned towards the throne, and with a stern voice rippling in an alien dialect; she echoed words throughout the vast spaces within ‘The Heart’ – the chamber where all battle strategies were formed. “Empress, your ‘Dead Army’ have been deployed to all the designated positions of favour, and your ‘Slave Escort’ is chained and ready to depart at your malevolent convenience.”

-“Thank you General, has the messenger been sent to the ulterior location?”

-“Yes Empress, he’s scheduled to meet the contact within 15 minutes of their landing.”

-“Good, now let’s go see what the famous Captain Dryake D. Hamilton has to say.”

Meanwhile the landing party of the Trafalgar 7, were preparing to disembark. All five were congregated in the well-lit atmosphere integration chamber, and dressed in the ship’s vintage dark yellow ‘Reinforced Skin’ under armour; it was tight and left little to the imagination. The party of five consisted of: Captain Drayke D. Hamilton, Princess Anissa Ife, Commander James Dean; leader of the ‘Hidden Shield’ Mercenaries, Dr. Jasmine Samoy, and Lead Engineer Blaise Spur. As typical of any off world mission, each individual had to be injected with the translator serum. This extremely expensive serum, consists of preprogrammed microorganisms that attach to selected brain synapses allowing for the translation of all known languages. Dr. Samoy had administered the serum to all four of the five members, including herself. The last person left was Anissa Ife, ever since she was a child she had always been a great judge of character. As Dr. Samoy approached with the petit serum transfer pen in hand – Anissa remembered how little she cared for the Doctor, and her curve-less figure. Dr. Samoy stood close and asked for Anissa’s hand, the light from the atmosphere integration chamber, refracted off it like a blade. The serum transfer pen’s stainless steel appearance was predominately entrapped by her deviously dexterous fingers. Her left hand, held Anissa’s in a grip easily mistaken for something with intimate design, while clasping the transfer pen expertly in the other. She pressed it on her, and looked straight into Anissa Ife’s eyes as the cold pen bit into her skin.

There was an awkward moment of stillness between them both, until Anissa pulled away to console the tingle on her hand. She looked annoyed yet preoccupied with other thoughts. Most likely, those of how she would perform on – without question the most important negotiation of her short political career. As the princess turned away, Dr. Samoy, couldn’t help but observe the Reinforced Skin gently rub Anissa in places she knew Drayke’s mind played. Just as the feelings of a familiar jealously began to swell, a stare of satisfaction roamed through the busyness of bodies; eventually meeting eyes cold with calculated intent – Blaise Spur, and Jasmine Samoy had recognised each other and smiled.

My favourite thing about writing these types of poems is not knowing what the poem is about until it’s finished. Because the creative process is not the typical one, of responding to a deep need to express something. With these, I here a song from my playlist, and feel something stir inside me. If the feeling in the pit of my stomach is strong enough, I select it to be squared2. Then watch as I start to express things i didn’t even know where residing within.

Yesterday2

Yesterday I fell in love, today feels like my funeral.

The past can feel like the end, when isolated pain becomes communal.

I just got hit by a bus, shouldn’t have been so beautiful.

Your impact sprayed into rainbows, then soaked the desert full.

Don’t know why I gave my heart, gave my trust, gave everything.

You think if I had the chance to do it over again, I’d do something different? Make better decisions?

The beast I was before follows behind, close like a night terror only just escaped – the bed of indecision.

Give my all, you take it from me.

Take my all; you gave it to me,

Don’t even replace it for me.

But I keep making the same mistakes before – I see the danger but I go forward.

Repeated footsteps into the abyss, comfortable I’ve become to the darkness, my instincts a miss.

I feel like a killer hit me, the weapon was concealed initially.

Lover, assassin? The bullet thread to both, but at least love initially.

You deserve to feel it with me more.

I feel like I beg with you, plead with you,

My tears, a shallow drop in the Sahara.

I can’t comprehend how you can’t love when it’s so easy too.

Soft is the spirit that see’s the spaces between trying harder.

I thought you could do it, I believed in the naïve in you.

Little dress and footsteps towards me, disarming smiles that came from youth.

I just need to breathe, baby, now I got the freedom to.

First air of the saved, or last gasp of the failed? Love together and choose.

This is a very peculiar poem. It came to me suddenly, while half asleep and trying to instagram without letting my phone fall onto my face. Sometimes I really feel that we don’t consciously create art, it just rises to the surface through from a deep uncharted place within. I’m still not sure what this poem actually means…Usually in these cases, it’s meaning is slowly uncovered by my conscious mind day by day.

I resisted the temptation to re-write or ‘improve’ it. Just kept it exactly how it came to me. Enjoy!

The Man Who Couldn’t Do Right.

Here he stood, on a cold pavement thinking of the love left.

Seeing shadows navigate the streets under the colour of magma – the dance of the bereft.

He walked for miles & miles, right foot before left.

Eventually his strides slowed, there was a fork in the road and a church in the middle – love snowed.

Part Two.

-“Hit you…? Is that what you told your posh friends from Wimbledon?? The scary black man hit me?” She stayed silent and still in her previous expression, like a frozen image on a computer screen. “Not gonna lie Clo, a part of me wishes I did, I’m not proud of my actions that day, but what you did was unforgivable.” Her lips moved into life.

-“And yet here you are, literally followin’ me into hell, just to talk to me. So you’ve forgiven me now then, yeah?” I took a second to think about that…I realised quickly that I had. Putting aside her petty, remorselessly devious behaviour that day, and the weeks building up to it, all the failings in our relationship that I attributed to her; emotional blackmail, reducing me to just the colour of my skin, and stifling important parts of my personality – to the point of subconscious resentment and loss of love (if I ever was in the first place), were failings I transferred onto myself. All in the form of, ‘I should of known better’. So, what am I still mad about? What do I want her to gain from this exchange of bitter words? In the end, nothing. I had forgiven her, but just not myself for starting a relationship in such a naïve way. I mean what 20-year-old becomes ‘official’ with a girl after one date?! And on top of that, does it for the sole purpose of getting over somebody else?? Then perpetuates that lack of foresight throughout with constant self-degenerative comprise. I was mad at myself for selecting someone so wrong for me in the first place, and since, have had a burning desire to maintain a friendship that would make that decision seem less disastrous. Let her go Alpha, whatever mental ailments she has, that make her carry an inexplicable hatred for 10 years are irrelevant to you now. Especially now that your dead. Don’t keep self harming into the afterlife.

A cold weight of regret lifted from me, like removing a jumper heavy from the winters rain. In my unburdened state, I walked into a warm house of feeling. In there I recalled the first time I saw her. I was late arriving at our usual Friday nightspot – Wetherspoons Fulham Broadway. On my way there, or perhaps while I was still at home, ironing my ‘going out’ T-shirt to the sound of Fergie, Fergalicious – Chris calls me, and tells me that there’s this girl here that is completely my type. He sounded so excited to show her to me, I still remember imagining him standing outside the entrance, shielding his ears from the music as he spoke into his phone. I didn’t go out as often as him so maybe he was trying to convince me to come…It worked, I came and when I arrived, I exchanged pleasantries with our friendly neighbourhood 7 foot bouncer. While scanning the venue for Chris, I immediately saw you, he didn’t even have to point you out. I saw what he meant in the brief seconds it took you to ‘drop it low’ and ‘work it’ in those baggy jeans and the white contour hugging vest top. Your face unremarkable, but your moves fire, other girls can move, but you were dropping b-boy level foot footwork too. Already the dance floor was succumbing to your groove – it was like watching myself from the outside in. You were the perfect blend of tomboyish style, and feminine wiles. I knew that I had to dance with you, all the guys watching you – scared of you, were brushed aside as I approached you, and with the confidence of knowing the desires of a dancer, I moved myself into your groove.

I truly lovely memory, but the smile on my face didn’t last too long. Like the rest of our relationship, the other side of this coin was blacked with dirt and rust. It dawned on me that this, in fact was the when you showed the first sign of your controlling nature. Even during your first dance with a complete stranger, you weren’t satisfied with the height at which he was grinding. So, instead of playing it off naturally or slowly trying to mutually adjust until perfectly synced like lock and key. I remember you literally slapping my thighs to get me to go lower, like I was non compliant cattle. A small thing in the light of everything else I know, but so is the tip of an iceberg that pokes out from the ocean. Anyway, it’s done.

-“Yes, I have forgiven you, because there was nothing to forgive. You’re you, and I’m me, and that always has been the truth of everything. I’m finally finished with your ghost.”

-“What the f*** are you talkin’ about?!” I didn’t even acknowledge her aggressive tone, I turned away and instinctively looked at my phone. A notification popped up saying ‘Days of future past cleared’ as I slide my thumb across my screen, I could still hear her shout shallow bitterness into the air; a broken record, the blunt instrument of a nihilist. She’s still trying to control my feelings.

“You’re nothin! When I met you, you were at uni, going places, now you’re unemployed!

“I have to pay your phone bills for you!”

“You used to be fitter!”

“You used to be faster!”

“Lance played better than you!”

“You’re not the best sex I’ve ever had anymore!”

As her voice faded away into the empty abyss of a soundless night, a phrase came to mind – ‘if a tree falls, and there’s no one around to hear it, does it make a sound?’ The room – her bedroom, disappeared, revealing the grey of hell, the daemon’s tail and George…(I think, my guardian angel), and his diamond dust smile. The sight of which, brings me further into the deeps of a peaceful ocean. But we’re not alone, I can’t forget the shark that lurks beneath – Nusodar. “Of the Regrets” George said, as the creature stood only meters away grimacing. I felt frost on my skin just looking at it, its skin was the texture of plucked goose-flesh. Its eyes; a washed black, pulsing red veins of one sleep deprived, and large puss coloured pupils. Nusodar appeared contagious… I shudder to think what level of sickness can affect even a being from this place?

Yet, somehow it had grown in stature since I last saw it, walking more upright, an element of freedom to it’s strides, imposing a terrifying weight onto the stone surface with each purposeful step. Could it be more alive now? Like a predator sensing proximity to its prey. “Alpha, what are you waiting for? Si tu attends trop longtempts, il va vraiment te bouffer? You don’t want that, he has horrible eating habits.”

-“I thought it was here to bring me to the town with the horrific screaming voices?” I said with a mischievous tone.

-“And who says it can’t eat you first…? They’re screaming for a reason Alpha” he replied with parental impatience. My little well dressed angel didn’t need to repeat himself. I took out my phone, unlocked it and selected the second box from within the app, all with the swiftness of a cowboys quick draw. Three choices appeared – Alpha, Beta or Gamma? Part of me was surprised to read those words, another deeper more insidious part, wasn’t. Without hesitation, I let the later select the next trial. A new door appeared before us, identical to the last in every way except one – the scorched words on its surface.

In Hell With My Ex – But There’s An App For That

Part One.

Sometimes, there’s nothing left but the pain.

I think I died yesterday, I’m not sure…but I remember this sharp sting at the back of my neck, and the voice of someone I knew. However, what I did know was that where I was once I opened my eyes wasn’t home. This new place was different to what I imagined…the air felt empty, in that there wasn’t any…no fire or brimstone. I think this is what the vacuum of space feels like. The landscape was vast – as far as my eye could see. Although, there was only land in front of me…the beaten road of black stone I stood on, and the eerie looking town or village at the end of its kilometer stretch. From what I could make out from this distance, its skyline was like that of every ghost town ever conceived for television. Either side of that, just empty grey…like an incomplete thought of a tired mind. I believe it to be night…but can’t be sure, it’s not a sky I recognize. Just more strange tones of blandness with blemishes of black seeping through.

I’ve been standing here aimlessly in what I’m assuming was on my body when whatever it was killed me. Black shoes, my favourite pair of slim fit blue jeans, singlet, and a white shirt only half tucked in, full of the creases of the unloved and homeless – as my mum would say to me growing up. I’d guess ten minutes passed without me moving an inch, not so sure what I’m scared of…probably that this isn’t heaven, and I’d have to confront the idea that I’m not the ‘good’ person I believe I am…was. Maybe I should have given my local vagabond some more of my loose change, I didn’t need it. No, he’d just of used it to buy more alcohol or cigarettes, if he was really even homeless…’Shhh that’s the kind of thinking that probably got you down here – idiot’.

Eventually, I calmed my active mind enough to formulate the necessary motor skills to walk forward. To where I could feel, I deserved to be. It was only after a few hundred meters of the loneliest stroll my mortal self could never of conceived, that I heard it. A sound that made my stomach clench violently, like trying to vomit when you’re already empty. It was beyond anything I’d heard before, I can only describe it as the collective, elongated screams of the people you love. But, I didn’t know these voices…yet it felt like hearing them be hacked to death in front of me. I couldn’t walk anymore, the sound was crippling, I felt blood trickle from my ear canal – It felled me to my knees. Adrenaline was rushing through my body as I cried the saddest tears I didn’t understand. This just kept going on and on, I realised that it wouldn’t stop and begged my heart to give up.

Sometimes, there’s nothing left but pain.

-“ Bonjour Monsieur” – I felt a small hand touch mine. It was warm and soft like a child’s. It told me to stand up and suddenly I could. I turned to look at this person, and was taken struck by the design of his features, he spoke again, telling me his name in a light jovial voice that muted the noise and the pain. “ Je m’appelle George”. George was about 5ft 5 in height, and black hair styled into what a child who stole his father’s hair gel, might think was a smart adult look. Although dressed in a sophisticated, fitted, light grey tweed blazer, and trousers to match. The bright yellow V-neck jumper of home crafted patterns, lowered his tone, to one matching the hopeful smile on his special face. His cumbersome, faded brown brief case was tightly gripped in the hand not touching mine. Both it, and the presidential blue tie resting securely on his clean white shirt, did a lot to balance his appearance. Half child looking for play at nursery, half concerned passer-by in between office meetings. His face, were most of my attention kept returning – was clearly that of someone with downs syndrome; the scrunched up features, cheeks coloured red with mischief, and the A typical thick neck of an Olympic wrestler.

He helped me to my feet, I went to brush myself clean, but there was no evidence I’d been laying in fetal position on the stone road. As I wondered briefly, about how many other souls had walked this path before me, I all but forgot the gut wrenching pain I was just in. The grinning stranger just kept looking at me like I was a lost puppy he’d found in the park.

-“Who are you?” I asked him calmly, while fighting this peculiar compulsion to hug him tightly.

-“My name is George, and I’m an angel.” Intuitively, I knew this to be true.

-“ You speak English?”

-“Yes, we speak all the languages of your earth.” He spoke those words without a tone or mannerism that would imply the diminished faculties I would expect. “I personally prefer French, but you don’t think your French is as good as it used to be.” I just nodded obediently without picking up the real meaning of his words. He continued, “You are in hell but only at the start, the spirits down here call it the demon’s tail. The pain you were hearing and feeling was the voices of all the people you’ve hurt, other’s experience different things on the demon’s tail, but guilt is your ‘self harm’. I didn’t know how to respond, his insights were swift and cutting like a blade. He reminded me of the voice in my head that finds me in the night. The one that’s become a bedtime story of wants and hurts.

-“What’s that town at the end of the road” I asked to avoid thinking anymore about the home and life I’d lost.

-“Nowhere you want to be Alpha, but somewhere Nusodar of The Regrets wants to take you.”

-“Who?”

-“Him.” George said pointing away from the stone path to a pale-headed figure in all black. It had the stature of a man, but even from the fifty-meter distance it was currently at, the lazy, struggle-ridden movements towards us, felt simultaneously inhuman yet palpably depressed. His approach ominous; fear, and wanting salvation soaked my bones. I hadn’t felt anything like it, since the long car journey’s home from terrible parents evenings with my father.

-“How’s this going to help?” I whisper, as my spirit deflated into thoughts of what’s to come.

-“Do you want to get out of here?” I didn’t respond…I knew the answer I wanted to give, but for some reason it felt lodged in my throat. “You have to say it or I can’t help you.” As he spoke those words his expression changed, no longer was it one pleased to see me. I felt the weight of this moment press me, and I forced the word out uncomfortably.

-“Yes.”

-“Good, because there’s an app for that” the happiness returning to his face like the beaming rush of the amused. “Open the app called ‘Tri-force’”, I did. “You’ll see that there are three boxes, each represents the three stages of ascent from hell. Tap on the first one.” As I followed George’s instructions, I couldn’t help but notice that the one he called Nusodar, was still ambling towards me. At this closer distance, I could see the unnerving expression on its hairless and deeply wrinkled face. There was sorrow and hardship clung to it like the ancient guilt of a retired executioner. My pulse rate speed up as my hands started to sweat, but I trusted George like a dear friend from childhood, so I focused on his gentle voice. “You see, now you have three choices.” He said, as we both stared intently at the phone in my hand.

-“I don’t understand, what does ‘X past, present or future’ mean?”

-“It means my little friend, that your first trial is to choose who you want to confront. An ex girlfriend from your past, present of future?”

-“Future? I’m pretty sure I’m dead.”

-“There are many possible paths, and this, your death – is just one, selecting that box will allow you to experience one of them.” George said casually, as if they were the rules some popular child’s game.

-“What about that thing in black coming for me?”

-“Alpha, don’t worry George is here, plus when you’re in the trial, Nusodar of The Regrets can’t interfere.”

-“Do you have to say that whole title every time?”

-”Definitely, it really doesn’t like abbreviations.” The idea that this foreboding entity could be in an even worse mood, than his current expression and posture suggested, was terrifying. So, I started thinking on my choices. My heart began beating to the rhythm of my lost loves, pounding to the feel of the woman I left in death, and resonating the warmth of experiences reserved for my un-lived mortal selves. I knew who I wanted to see…

-“I’ve decided”

-“Excellent, tap your choice and enter the door that will appear.” I did, and instantly a large oak wood door materialized. It had these words scorched into it,

‘The After Life is,

Kinematics & Cessation

This, is After Life.’

They sounded very familiar, but aware as I was of how close the colourless thing in black was getting; I didn’t dwell on it, simply just turned the cold metallic doorknob and walked into a dimly lit room I recognized instantly. There she was.

Sometimes, there’s nothing left but pain.

-“What do you want Alpha?” Her voice stated, as she stood with her back to me. She posed stubbornly beside the computer that faced the window. She was wearing her cherished baggy blue hoodie, the one from her first dance group –‘Boy Blue’. The jeans she wore continued her infamous loose fitting style, with those almost comically small feet poking out from beneath the enveloping boot cuts. I’d forgotten just how short she was.

-“I Just want to talk to you Clo.” I said more timidly than intended. Maybe I was still taken aback by the feeling of being in her bedroom of her parent’s house again. The doubled bed where we watched endless episodes of friends, the home PC where I would copy the latest magic system album onto my iPod, and the wardrobe I would watch her get dressed at, before her Saturday morning class teaching ballet. ‘Those kids are so lucky’ I would think to myself, as I lay cocooned in her doublet-quilted duvet. But those pleasant memories are double edged…with each living long enough to become villainous.

-“You’re so f***ing annoying, I blocked you, your friends, and all your brothers from Facebook, then when I saw you working at the same fitness first I taught at, I changed jobs. Isn’t that clear enough?! I don’t even want to look at your face!” She yelled, all still while having her back to me, her head never turning away from the window that looked out to the driveway.

-“Yeah, but why? Why are you actin like a crazy b****? It’s been literally 10 years, how can you still have feelings for me?? Don’t say you don’t, coz you obviously do if you can’t even look me in the eye. Or, you really are just insane.” I voiced in exasperation.

-“urrrgh, but why do you still want to talk to me?? I obviously don’t want you in my life, so why the hell do you still want to be in it?? Only a crazy person wants to be friends with someone who hates them.”

-“But why do you f***ing hate me so much? What the F*** did I do? Yeah so I dumped you? And what?! Did I cheat on you? No! Did I F*** your best friend, No!”

-”BUT ALPHA, WHY DO YOU STILL WANT TO BE MY FRIEND?!” She repeated her sentiment vehemently. However, this time it penetrated my almost uncontrollable impulse to speak over her. The feeling was a strange yet familiar sting. I knew the answer, and always have. I hate the idea of someone not liking me…especially when I don’t know why. Do I have a compulsive need for people to like me? I’ve never thought so, but maybe this says different. Just then, I felt words escape my mouth on their own.